UR  LADY'S  TUMBLER: 
TALE  OF  MEDIEVAL 
RANGE 


DIEGO 


Our  Lady's  Tumbler 


OUR  LADY'S  TUMBLER: 
A  TALE  OF  MEDIAEVAL 
FRANCE  gfc  TRANSLATED 
INTO  ENGLISH  FROM 
THE  OLD  FRENCH  BY 
ISABEL  BUTLER  £»  BOS- 
TON :  SMALL,  MAYNARD 
&  COMPANY:  MDCCCXCIX 


Copyright,  1898,  by 
Copeland  and  Day 


First    Edition  —  February,  1898. 
Second  Edition — September,  1899. 


TRANSLATOR'S  NOTE 
OUR  LADY'S  TUMBLER  is  one 
of  a  large  body  of  stories  much 
beloved  in  Mediaeval  France 
that  turn  upon  some  miracle  per- 
formed by  the  Virgin, — a  type  of 
story  of  which  the  most  familiar 
example  in  English  is  the  tale 
told  by  Chaucer's  prioress.  Ear- 
ly in  the  thirteenth  century  sev- 
eral collections  of  these  miracles 
were  compiled,  the  two  most 
important  being  those  of  Gau- 
tier  de  Coinci,  prior  of  Vic-Sur- 
Aisne,  and  of  Jean  le  Marchant, 
a  priest  of  Chatres.  Though 
most  of  the  legends  are  interest- 
ing to  us  to-day  mainly  for  the 
curious  insight  they  give  us  into 
the  religious  sentiment  of  the 


to  be  hung,  Our  Lady  herself 
stretched  out  her  fair  white  hands 
beneath  his  feet  and  supported 
him,  so  that  he  felt  no  hurt  or  in- 
convenience from  the  rope  about 
his  neck.  Those  who  had  pre- 
viously condemned  now  gladly 
released  him;  on  thus  regaining 
his  freedom  he  entered  a  monas- 
tery and  vowed  himself  to  the 
service  of  the  Virgin. 

In  spite  of  their  variety  of  de- 
tail, all  the  stories  are  yet  domi- 
nated by  one  common  sentiment, 
— that  of  pity.  It  is  true  that  from 
the  point  of  view  of  justice  this 
compassion  seems  often  some- 
what oddly  bestowed,  and  the 
reward,  say  of  the  thief  for  duly 
reciting  his  prayers  at  proper 


intervals,  wholly  undeserved. 
Yet  even  such  cases  as  these 
may  be  taken  as  but  the  extreme 
expression  of  the  idea  of  human 
weakness  and  the  power  of  for- 
giveness so  deeply  rooted  in 
mediaeval  Christianity. 

Though  Our  Lady's  Tumbler 
shows  this  same  spirit  of  naive 
faith  and  devotion,  it  yet  differs 
from  the  majority  of  similar  tales 
by  its  subtler  moral  thinking,  and 
a  more  lifelike  presentment  of 
its  story.  The  minstrel  himself, 
his  embarrassment  among  his 
new  companions,  his  doubts,  his 
compunctions,  his  final  determi- 
nation to  serve  by  his  own  trade 
as  best  he  may,  and  the  eager- 
ness with  which  he  goes  about 


his  work,  all  this  comes  home  to 
us  sharply  enough.  So  too  does 
the  monk  who  spied  upon  the 
convert  when  at  his  curious  de- 
votions, and  who  could  laugh  at 
the  spectacle  and  yet  like  the 
man  the  better  for  the  earnest- 
ness with  which  he  plied  his 
trade.  Thus  instead  of  being  hur- 
ried on  to  the  miracle  at  the  end, 
we  are  allowed  to  linger  by  the 
way ;  and  through  all  the  story 
we  find  something  of  the  temper 
of  the  monk  who  was  moved  by 
the  tumbler's  way  of  serving 
both  to  mirth  and  to  compassion. 
The  original,  like  most  medi- 
aeval stories,  is  written  in  verse, 
the  form  being  the  much-used 
short  octosyllabic  line  arranged 


in  rhyming  couplets.  Of  the  his- 
tory of  the  little  poem  we  know 
almost  nothing.  Its  editor,  Wil- 
helm  Foerster,  tells  us  that  its 
language  is  of  the  end  of  the 
twelfth  century,  and  its  dialect 
that  of  the  Isle  de  France.  Be- 
yond this  his  information  is  pure- 
ly negative.  Its  author  is  un- 
known, and  so  too  is  its  precise 
date ;  it  is  not  found  in  any  of  the 
chief  collections  of  the  miracles 
of  Our  Lady,  and,  although  its 
author  asserts  that  he  has  found 
his  material  in  the  lives  of  the 
Fathers,  its  sources  have  not  yet 
been  discovered. 

The  poem,  edited  from  a  manu- 
script in  the  Arsenal  Library  in 
Paris,  by  Foerster,  first  appeared 


in  the  "Romania"  for  1873.  It 
has,  somewhat  oddly,  never  been 
reprinted;  so  that  the  story  that 
a  specialist  like  M.  Gaston  Paris 
and  a  literary  wanderer  like  M. 
Anatole  France  unite  in  prais- 
ing is  still  only  to  be  found  in  the 
back  number  of  a  learned  maga- 
zine. In  1894  a  translation  by  P. 
H.  Wicksteed  was  published  in 
England.  The  fact  that  the  edi- 
tion was  a  small  one,  and  the 
book  already  out  of  print,  excuses 
another  version. 

When  Fcerster  brought  out  the 
story  in  1 873,  he  knew  of  the  exis- 
tence of  but  a  single  manuscript. 
Since  then  two  more  have  been 
found,  a  second  in  the  Arsenal 
Library  and  another  in  the  Na- 


tional  Library.  In  1880  Gustav 
Grceber  published  the  variants  of 
these  manuscripts  in  the  "  Zeit- 
schrift  fur  Romanische  philolo- 
gie  "  (Vol.  IV.).  The  variations 
of  text  are  for  the  most  part 
slight  and,  from  a  literary  point 
of  view,  unimportant.  In  a  few 
instances,  however,  Grceber's 
readings  have  been  adopted  in 
the  present  translation. 


LADY'S  TUMBLER 

f  N  the  lives  of  the  early 
§%  fathers,   where  there   is 
^  much  goodly  matter,  we 
are  told  this  tale.  I  do  not 
say  that  there  is  not  many  an- 
i^other  to  be  heard  fairer  than  this, 
^only  that  this  is  not  of  so  little 
worth  but  that  it  is  good  to  tell. 
Now  speak  we  of  a  certain  min- 
strel and  what  befell  him. 

came  and  went  for  so 
in  divers  places,  and 
•S&  so  wasted  his  strength, 
$that  at  last,  weary  of  the  world,  he 
withdrew  into  a  holy  order.  His 
horses,  his  garments,  his  money, 
and  all  that  he  had  he  put  therein , 
and  left  the  world,  for  he  would 
follow  its  ways  no  more.  Thus, 

J 


then,  he  came  into  the  monas- 
tery which,  men  say,  was  that 
of  Clairvaux.  Now,  though  the 
youth  was  of  much  worship,  and 
fair  and  well  made  and  goodly, 
he  yet  knew  no  craft  of  which 
the  folk  there  stood  in  any  need. 
For  he  had  lived  only  by  tum- 
bling and  leaping  and  dancing; 
and  though  he  knew  right  well 
how  to  leap  and  to  spring,  he 
knew  naught  beside,  for  no  other 
lesson  had  he  ever  learned,  nor 
knew  he  either  Pater  Noster,  or 
p^chant,  or  Credo,  or  Ave,  or  aught 
>/else  that  might  work  for  his  sal- 


OW,  when  he  was  come 
into  the  monastery  and  saw 
tonsured  brethren  who  let 


no  word  fall  from  their  lips,  but 
spoke  among  themselves  by 
signs,  he  believed  that  they  held 
communication  one  with  an- 
other only  in  this  wise.  But  soon 
he  was  undeceived,  and  learned 
that  they  denied  themselves 
speech  only  as  a  penance,  where- 
fore at  certain  times  they  were 
silent.  And  it  seemed  to  him  fit- 
ting that  he  too  should  forego 
speech ;  and  he  remained  silent 
so  cheerfully  and  so  persistently 
that  he  would  not  speak  for  a 
whole  day,  were  he  not  other- 
wise commanded,  whereatthere 
was  often  much  laughter.  And 
the  minstrel  was  much  abashed 
and  ill  at  ease  among  the  breth- 
ren, for  he  knew  not  how  to  share 


by  word  or  by  deed  in  that  which 
was  the  practice  of  the  place ;  so 
was  he  dejected  and  heavy  at 
heart.  He  saw  the  monks  and  the 
lay  brothers  each  serving  oBod 
in  his  place  and  after  the  man- 
ner appointed  to  him.  He  saw 
the  priests  before  the  altar,  for 
that  was  their  office;  he  saw  the 
deacons  at  the  Gospels,  and  the 
sub-deacons  at  the  vigils;  and 
the  acolytes  in  their  turn  were 
ready  at  the  Epistles  when  the 
time  was.  One  recited  a  psalm, 
and  another  the  lesson  for  the 
day;  the  young  clerks  were  at 
their  psalters,  and  the  lay  broth- 
ers at  the  litanies, —  for  such  is 
the  order  in  these  matters, — 
while  the  more  ignorant  said 
their  Pater  Nosters.  A 


E  looked  about  him  up  and 
down  through  all  theoffices 
;and  courts,  and  in  many  a  hid- 
den corner  he  saw  men  in  fours 
)or  fives  or  twos,  or  singly  may- 
be; and  if  so  that  he  might,  he 
looked  hard  at  every  man  of 
them.  He  heard  one  groan,  and 
another  weep,  and  a  third  sigh 
and  lament,  and  much  he  mar- 
velled what  the  matter  might  be. 
"^oly  &£ary,"  said  he,  "what  is 
amiss  with  these  men  that  they 
bear  themselves  thus,  and  make 
such  dole?  Methinks  they  must 
be  sore  vexed  and  troubled  to  be- 
moan themselves  thus."  Then 
he  said  again :  "  i^oly  2$ary,  alas, 
and  woe  is  me !  what  is  this  that 
I  have  said?  I  do  believe  that 


they  pray  40od's  mercy.  But  I, 
poor  wretch  that  I  am,  what  do  I 
do  here?  There  is  no  one  so  base 
in  all  the  convent  but  strives  to 
serve <£5od  in  his  own  manner; 
but  I  have  no  trade  that  is  of  serv- 
ice to  me  here,  and  I  do  naught 
by  word  or  by  deed.  Caitiff  was 
I  when  I  came  into  this  place, 
for  I  know  nor  prayer,  nor  aught 
else  that  is  good.  I  see  one  here 
and  another  there;  but  I  do 
naught  but  dream  away  my  time, 
and  eat  my  bread  to  no  purpose. 
Now,  if  this  thing  be  noted  con- 
cerning me,  a  sorry  fall  shall  be 
mine,  for  they  will  cast  me  out  of 
doors.  And  here  am  I  a  strong 
fellow,  and  yet  I  do  naught  but 
eat.  Truly  a  poor  creature  am  I 


in  a  goodly  place."  Then  he  wept 
to  relieve  his  grief,  and  wished 
he  were   dead,     "i^oly  $£ary, 
Smother,"  he  said  again,  "I  be- 
seech you  pray  <£5od,  your  Sov- 
ereign f  ather,  that  He  hold  me 
in  His  favour,  and  that  He  send 
-jjme  good  counsel  how  I  may 
/|  serve  Him  and  you,  and  earn  the 
bread  that  I  eat;  for  I  know  that 
(flsmy  present  ways  are  evil." 

he  had  bemoaned 


thus,  he  went 
away  through  the  clois- 
ter,  looking  this  way  and  that, 
until  he  came  into  a  crypt  ;  there 
he  crouched  down  by  an  altar, 
drawing  himself  as  close  to  it  as 
he  might.  Above  the  altar  was 
a  statue  of  <^ur  Slady,  the  Ij^oly 


,  and  he  did  not  go  astray 
when  he  came  into  that  place; 
no,  in  sooth,  for  4&od,  who  directs 
His  own,  had  guided  his  foot- 
steps thither.  Anon,  when  he 
heard  the  mass  begin,  he  sprang 
up  dismayed,  "Ah!  how  am  I 
brought  to  shame,"  he  cried; 
"now  everyone  is  saying  his  les- 
son, and  I  am  as  a  tethered  ox, 
for  I  do  naught  but  browse,  and 
I  eat  my  bread  to  no  purpose. 
Shall  I  serve  neither  by  word 
nor  by  deed?  By  the  Bother 
of  <£5od,  I  will ;  nor  shall  I  win 
any  blame  thereby;  I  will  do 
what  I  have  been  taught  to  do, 
and  I  will  serve  the  Bother  of 
<Z5od  here  in  her  monastery  by 
my  own  trade;  the  others  serve 

8 


by  singing,  and  I  will  serve  by 
tumbling." 

He  took  off  his  cloak  and  dis- 
robed himself,  and  laid  his  gar- 
ments beside  the  altar;  but  that 
he  might  not  be  wholly  naked, 
he  kept  on  a  coat  that  was  light 
and  fine  of  texture ;  of  little  more 
weight  was  it  than  a  shirt,  and 
the  rest  of  his  body  was  left  free. 
He  girded  and  busked  him,  right 
well  he  girded  his  coat  and  made 
him  ready.  Then  he  turned  to 
the  image,  and  looked  up  at  it 
very  humbly:  "Eady,"  said  he, 
"into  your  care  I  commit  me, 
body  and  soul.  oBentle  itady, 
J>weet<®ueen,donotdespisethat 
which  I  know,  for  I  would  serve 
you  in  all  good  faith,  and  so  <£5od 

9 


may  help  me,  without  offence. 
I  knownothowto  read  or  to  sing, 
but  right  gladly  will  I  show  you 
my  most  chosen  tricks  of  tum- 
bling; and  I  will  be  as  the  young 
calf  that  skips  and  springs  be- 
fore his  mother.  Eady,  who  are 
never  cruel  to  those  who  serve 
you  faithfully,  such  as  I  am  now 
am  I  wholly  yours." 

Then  he  began  to  leap  and  to 
spring,  now  up  and  now  down, 
beginning  first  with  small  ca- 
pers, and  then  leaping  higher  and 
higher.  And  then  he  went  down 
on  his  knees  before  the  image, 
and  bowed  before  it,  saying: 
"&£ost  s&weet  <&ueen,  of  your 
grace  and  your  mercy  despise 
not  my  service."  Then  again 

JO 


he  leaped  and  tumbled,  and,  to 
make  merry,  he  did  the  trick  of 
Metz  around  his  head.  Anon  he 
bowed  before  the  image  and 
worshipped  her,  and  honoured 
her  with  all  that  he  had.  Then 
he  did  the  French  trick  and  the 
trick  of  Champagne,  and  next  the 
Spanish  trick,  and  the  tricks  they 
do  in  Brittany,  and  then  the 
trick  of  Lorraine;  and  he  did 
them  all  with  great  travail,  and 
spared  himself  not  at  all.  There- 
after he  did  the  Romish  trick, 
and  putting  his  hands  before  his 
face,  danced  right  featly  and 
fairly,  as  he  looked  all  humbly 
upon  the  image  of  the  Bother  of 
<®od.  "Hady,"  he  said,  "this  is 
good  disport;  and  I  do  it  for  no 

n 


other  save  for  you  and  for  your 
<§>on  before  all,  so  <£5od  may  help 
me,  I  do  not.  And  I  dare  boast 
and  maintain  that  I  do  not  do  this 
for  my  own  pastime,  but  only  to 
serve  you,  and  to  acquit  myself; 
the  others  serve,  and  I  serve. 
3tady,  despise  not  your  thrall, 
for  I  serve  you  for  your  delight. 
Eady,  you  are  the  highest  joy, 
whoever  reckons  all  the  world." 
Then  he  tumbled  with  his  feet  in 
the  air,  and  went  and  came  on  his 
two  hands,  touching  the  earth 
only  with  these ;  yet  even  while 
his  feet  were  dancing  the  tears 
fell  from  his  eyes.  "Eady,"  he 
said,  "I  worship  you  with  my 
heart  and  my  body,  my  feet  and 
my  hands,  for  I  know  not  how  to 

\2 


worship  you  in  any  other  way. 
Henceforth  will  I  be  your  min- 
strel; and  while  the  others  of 
the  convent  are  chanting  within, 
I  will  come  and  tumble  here 
for  your  delight.  Hady,  you  can 
guide  me.  In  <*5od's  name,  de- 
spise me  not."  Then  he  con- 
fessed his  sins,  and  made  moan 
and  wept  softly,  for  that  he  knew 
no  other  manner  of  worship. 
Then  he  turned  away  and  made 
a  spring.  "Hady,"  he  said,  "so 
<Z35od  may  save  me,  this  thing 
did  I  never  before.  This  trick  is 
wholly  new,  and  is  not  for  com- 
mon folk.  Slady,  how  his  desires 
would  be  fulfilled  who  should 
dwell  with  you  in  your  glorious 
manor.  In  <£5od's  name,  Hady, 

J3 


receive  me  there;  wholly  yours 
am  I,  nor  mine  at  all."  And 
again  he  did  the  trick  of  Metz, 
and  tumbled  and  danced  persist- 
ently. And  when  he  heard  the 
sound  of  the  chant  rise  higher, 
he  exerted  himself  the  more;  and 
as  long  as  the  mass  lasted,  so 
long  did  he  leap  and  skip  and 
dance,  and  never  ceased  till  he 
was  so  spent  that  he  could  no 
longer  hold  himself  upright,  but 
sank  down  for  very  weariness, 
and  fell  to  the  ground  exhausted ; 
and  as  the  fat  runs  out  of  a  piece 
of  roast  meat,  so  the  sweat  ran 
off  all  his  body  from  head  to 
foot.  "  Eady,"  said  he, "  I  can  do 
no  more  now,  but  in  sooth  I 
will  come  again." 

14 


;LL  burning  seemed  he  with 
at.  He  put  on  his  gar- 
ments,  and  when  he  had  clothed 
himself  he  arose,  and  bowed  be- 
fore the  image,  and  went  his 
way.  "Farewell,"  he  said, "Most 
Sweet  Friend,  in  <JBod's  name  be 
not  cast  down,  for  if  I  may  I  will 
return,  and  every  hour  I  will 
serve  you  the  best  I  can, — if  it 
please  you,  and  if  it  be  permitted 
to  me."  Then  he  went  away, 
still  looking  back  at  the  image. 
"Hady,"saidhe,"muchitrepent- 
eth  me  that  I  do  not  know  all 
those  psalters,  for  right  gladly 
would  I  say  them  over  for  love 
of  you,  &£ost  ^weet  Slady.  To 
you  I  commend  me,  body  and 
soul." 

J5 


ND  he  continued  long  in 
£  this  way  of  life,  returning 
[  without  fail  at  every  hour  to  offer 
[his  homage  and  his  service  be- 
|fore  the  image.    For  his  delight 
lay  in  this  thing;  and  gladly  he 
performed  it,  so  that  there  was 
never  a  day  when  he  was  so 
weary  that  he  would  not  yet  do 
•his  best  for  the  delight  of  the 
Bother  of  4Bod;  nor  did  he  ever 
[desire  other  pastime. 

HEY  of  the  house  knew, 
no  doubt,  that  he  went 
every  day  to  the  crypt,  but 
lino  one,  save  <d5od,  knew  what  he 
/oil  did  there ;  and  he  would  not  for 
all  the  riches  of  the  world  that 
any  one  save  the  Hord  <!B»od  alone 
were  aware  of  his  employment. 

16 


For  he  feared  that  if  they  should 
know  of  it  they  would  straight- 
way drive  him  out  from  thence, 
and  cast  him  back  into  the  world 
that  so  teems  with  sin ;  and  he 
had  rather  that  he  were  dead 
than  that  sin  should  again  sting 
him.  But  <£5od,  who  read  the  in- 
tent of  this  good  man,  and  all 
his  compunctions,  and  knew  for 
whose  love  he  did  this  thing, 
willed  that  his  deed  should  no 
longer  be  hid.  Rather,  the  Eord 
willed  and  determined  that  the 
labour  of  His  friend  should  be 
known  and  made  manifest,  for 
the  sake  of  I^is  Bother  for  whose 
delight  he  had  wrought,  and  that 
all  might  see  and  know  and  un- 
derstand that  45od  refuses  no 

M 


)one  that  comes  to  Him  in  love, 
whatsoever  his  estate  may  be,  if 
[he  but  love  45od  and  do  right. 

O   you   think  that  <®od 
would  have    prized   his 
service  if  it  had  been  of- 
K  fered  without  love?  Nay,  not  so, 
rc  however  much  he  had  tumbled ; 
*  but  it  was  the  man's  love  that  the 
Btord  held  dear.  Though  you  toil 
and  travail,  and  watch  and  fast, 
and  weep  and  sigh,  and  groan 
and  pray;  though  you  do  pen- 
ance, and  go  to  mass  and  to 
matins,  and  pay  what  you  owe, 
and  give  all  that  you  have, — yet, 
if  you  love  not  the  ilord  <£5od 
with  your  whole  soul,  all  these 
things  are  thrown  away,  so  that, 
in  sooth,  they  shall  avail  not  for 

J8 


your  salvation.  For  without  love 
and  without  pity  all  labour  is  as 
naught.   <£5od  asks  not  for  gold 
nor  for  silver,  but  only  for  love 
in  the  hearts  of  His  people.  And 
ithis  man  loved  4&od  unfeign- 
ingly,  and  therefore  his  service 
p[was  sweet  to  the  itord. 
-  HE  good  man  continued 

long  in  this  way  of  life.   I 
cannot  tell  you  how  many 
years  he  lived  at  peace,  but  at 
I  length  he  was  thrown  into  much 
^trouble.    For  a  monk  took  note 
of  him,  and  blamed  him  much 
in  his  heart  in  that  he  came 
not  to  matins ;  and  he  marvelled 
what  became  of  him,  and  said 
within  himself  that  he  would 
never  rest  until  he  had  discov- 

19 


ered  what  manner  of  man  this 
was,  and  what  was  the  service 
that  he  did,  and  how  he  earned 
his  bread.  Now  the  monk  so  fol- 
lowed him,  and  so  watched  and 
spied  upon  him,  that  he  saw  him 
perform  all  his  tricks,  even  as  I 
have  told  you.  "  By  my  faith," 
he  said,  "this  man  makes  merry; 
he  holds  higher  festival,  it  seems 
to  me,  than  all  the  rest  of  us  to- 
gether. While  the  others  are  at 
prayer,  or  at  work  throughout 
the  household,  this  man  dances 
here  as  bravely  as  if  he  had  a 
hundred  marks  of  silver.  Yet  he 
does  his  task  well,  and  pays  us 
what  he  owes.  And  this  is  right 
enough, — we  sing  for  him  and 
he  tumbles  for  us;  we  pay  him 

20 


and  he  pays  us ;  and  if  we  weep, 
he  makes  us  good  return.  I 
would  that  all  the  convent  might 
see  him  as  I  do  now,  —  even 
though  the  terms  were  I  should 
fast  for  it  until  night.  There  is 
no  one,  I  think,  who  could  keep 
from  laughter  if  he  saw  the 
eagerness  of  this  poor  wretch, 
and  how  he  exerts  himself  in 
his  tumbling,  and  how  he  strives 
much,  and  spares  himself  not  at 
all.  45od  makes  of  it  a  penance 
for  him,  since  he  does  it  with  no 
ill  intent;  and,  certes,  for  my 
part  I  think  no  harm  of  it,  for  he 
does  it,  as  I  deem,  in  all  good 
faith  according  to  his  light,  and 
because  he  would  not  be  idle." 
And  with  his  own  eyes  the  monk 

2\ 


saw  how,  at  each  hour  of  the 
day,  the  good  man  toiled  and 
rested  not;  and  he  laughed  much 
thereat  and  wept,  for  he  was 
moved  by  it  both  to  mirth  and  to 
compassion. 

E  went  to  the  abbot  and 
told  the  whole  story  as 
f—-—^,f^  you  have  already  heard 
$it/and  the  abbot  arose  and  said 
I  to  the  monk:  "Now  do  not 
spread  this  abroad,  but  be  silent, 
for  by  your  vows  I  command 
iyou;  and  do  you  obey  my  com- 
mandment  to  speak  of  it  to  no 
one  save  to  me.  And  we  will  go 
together  to  see  this  thing,  and 
learn  the  truth  of  it.  And  we  will 
pray  to  the  I^eavenly  &ing,  and 
to  ^is  most  s&weet  Bother,  the 

22 


Jdadiant,  the  Beloved,  that  she 
in  her  gentleness  beseech  her 
J>on,  her  father,  her  Stord,  that  I 
may  see  this  sight  to-day,  if  it  be 
Ij^is  will;  that  435od  thereby  may 
be  the  more  beloved,  and  the 
good  man  be  not  blamed, — if  i^e 
wills  thus."  Then  they  went  all 
quietly  to  the  crypt,  and  with- 
out mishap  hid  themselves  in  a 
nook  hard  by  the  altar,  in  such 
wise  that  the  good  man  saw 
them  not.  And  the  abbot  and 
monk  watched  all  the  convert's 
devotions,  and  the  divers  tricks 
that  he  performed,  and  all  his 
leaping  and  dancing;  and  they 
saw  how  he  bowed  before  the 
image,  and  how  he  skipped  and 
sprang  till  his  strength  failed 

23 


him.  For  he  so  exerted  himself 
in  his  weariness  that  he  might 
no  longer  hold  himself  upright, 
but  fell  to  the  ground  exhausted. 
So  worn  and  spent  was  he  with 
his  labours  that  the  sweat  ran 
out  from  all  his  body  down  upon 
the  floor  of  the  crypt.  But  pres- 
ently, and  in  a  little  space,  his 
most  £weet  Hady  came  to  suc- 
cour him,  she  whom  he  had 
served  so  truly,  gladly  she  came 
tn  at  his  need. 

""gND  the  abbot  watched 
[C;and  straightway  saw  a 
IftEady  come  down  to  him 
0  flj&s sSSfrom  the  vault,  so  glorious 
u.  that  none  was  ever  seen  like  to 
K  her  in  loveliness  or  in  richness 
of  adornment,  for  none  so  beau- 

24 


tiful  was  ever  born.  Her  gar- 
ments were  rich  with  gold  and 
precious  stones ;  and  with  her 
came  angels  and  archangels 
from  heaven,  who  came  about 
the  minstrel  and  gave  him  com- 
fort and  consolation.  And  when 
they  were  gathered  about  him 
his  heart  was  lightened.  Then 
they  hastened  to  serve  him,  for 
they  longed  to  reward  him  for 
the  service  that  he  had  paid  to 
their  Hady,  that  most  J>weet 
f^onder.  And  the  sweet  and  gra- 
cious <©ueen  held  in  her  hands  a 
white  napkin,  and  with  it  she 
fanned  her  minstrel  right  gently 
before  the  altar.  The  Eady,  noble 
and  gentle,  fanned  his  face,  and 
neck,  and  body  to  cool  him; 

25 


gladly  she  succoured  him,  and 
gave  herself  wholly  to  the  task. 
But  the  good  man  takes  no  heed 
of  this,  for  he  neither  sees  nor 
knows  what  goodly  company  is 
about  him. 

The  holy  angels  do  him  great 
honour;  but  now  they  may  stay 
with  him  no  longer,  and  their 
3tady  stays  not,  but  makes  the 
sign  of  the  cross  upon  him,  and 
turns  away.  The  holy  angels 
follow  her,  yet  they  find  a  won- 
drous delight  in  gazing  back 
upon  their  comrade,  and  do  but 
await  the  hour  when  <ZBod  shall 
call  him  from  this  life  and  they 
may  receive  his  soul.  And  this 
the  abbot  and  his  monk  saw  in 
very  deed  a  good  four  times ;  for 

26 


it  befell  that  at  every  hour  the 
Bother  of  4Bod  returned  to  aid 
and  to  succour  her  servant,  — 
well  knows  she  how  to  succour 
her  own.  And  the  abbot  was 
much  rejoiced  thereat,  for  he 
had  been  very  desirous  to  get 
at  the  truth  of  the  matter. 

ND  no  w4B>od  had  clearly 


poor  man  offered  to  Him 
was  pleasing  in  His  sight.  The 
monk  was  all  abashed,  and  his 
anguish  burned  him  as  a  fire. 
"  My  lord,"  he  said  to  the  abbot, 
"  have  mercy  \  this  is  a  very  holy 
man  that  I  see  here.  Now  if  I 
have  spoken  any  evil  concern- 
ing him  it  is  right  that  my  body 
suffer  for  it.  So  lay  a  penance 

27 


upon  me,  for,  in  sooth,  this  is  a 
good  man  and  a  true.  We  have 
seen  all  this  matter  from  end  to 
end,  and  we  can  never  be  in  any 
doubt  concerning  it."  And  the 
abbot  said :  "  You  speak  truly, 
and  4Bod  has  made  it  plain  that 
He  loves  him  with  a  great  love. 
Now  I  command  you  straight- 
way, in  virtue  of  obedience,  and 
if  you  would  not  fall  under  sen- 
tence, that  you  speak  to  no  one 
of  what  you  have  seen,  save 
only  to  <£5od  and  to  me."  "My 
lord,"  he  said,  "I  give  you  my 
promise."  And  with  these  words 
they  went  away,  and  stayed  no 
longer  in  the  crypt.  And  the  good 
man  lingered  not,  but,  having 
finished  his  task,  he  put  on  his 

28 


garments,  and  went  to  take  his 
pastime  in  the  monastery. 

HUS  the  time  came  and 
went  until  a  short  space 
^QMthereafter  it  befell  that 
^Sf^the  abbot  summoned  to 
him  the  man  who  was  so  com- 
pact of  goodness.  Now,  when  he 
heard  that  he  was  summoned, 
and  that  the  abbot  had  asked  for 
him,  his  heart  was  full  of  bitter- 
ness, for  he  knew  not  what  he 
should  say.  "Alas,"  thought  he, 
"now  am  I  accused.  Never  shall 
I  be  for  a  day  without  annoy  and 
travail  and  shame,  for  my  ser- 
vice is  as  naught.  I  fear  it  is  not 
pleasing  to  <z3od,  but  rather,  alas ! 
it  is  displeasingto  Him,  since  the 


29 


truth  of  it  has  become  known. 
Did  I  think  that  such  labour  as 
mine  and  such  pastime  were  fit 
to  please  the  3tord  <£5od?  Nay, 
they  could  not  please  Him.  Alas! 
I  have  done  no  good  thing.  Woe 
is  me!  what  shall  I  do?  Woe  is 
me!  what  shall  I  say?  Oh,  fair, 
£weet  father,  what  will  become 
of  me?  Now  shall  I  be  undone 
and  brought  to  shame ;  now  shall 
I  be  driven  hence,  and  be  made 
a  butt  of  out  there  in  the  world 
that  is  so  full  of  evil.  J^oly  $$ary, 
£weet  Hady,  how  is  my  mind 
bewildered!  Where  to  turn  for 
counsel  I  know  not.  ilady,  come 
you  to  my  counsel.  Sfl^ost  gra- 
cious 4B>od,  now  succour  me! 


30 


Rest  not,  stay  not,  come,  and 
your  holy  Bother  thereto;  in 
<ZB»od's  name  come  not  without 
her.  Come  ye  both  to  my  suc- 
cour, for  in  sooth  I  know  not 
how  to  plead.  They  will  say 
straightway  and  at  the  first 
word:  'Hence!  get  you  gone!' 
Woe  is  me !  what  can  I  answer, 
I  who  know  not  a  word  to  say? 
Alas,  what  avails  it?  Go  hence 
I  needs  must."  Weeping,  so  that 
his  face  was  wet  with  his  tears, 
he  came  before  the  abbot ;  weep- 
ing, he  kneeled  down  before  him. 
"My  lord,"  he  said,  "mercy,  in 
<*3od's  name.  Would  you  drive 
me  out  from  here?  Say  what  you 
command  of  me,  and  I  will  do 
all  your  bidding." 

3J 


HEN  the  abbot  said:  "I 
•would  know  concerning 
you,  and  I  would  that  you  should 
tell  me  the  truth.  You  have 
been  here  for  a  long  time,  year 
in  and  year  out,  and  I  would 
know  in  what  manner  you  serve, 
and  how  you  earn  your  bread." 
"Alas,"  said  he,  "well  knew  I 
that  when  my  labours  became 
known  I  should  straightway  be 
driven  forth,  and  the  folk  here 
would  have  no  more  to  do  with 
me.  I  will  go  my  way,  my  lord," 
he  said.  "Wretched  I  am,  and 
wretched  I  shall  be,  and  of  good 
I  never  did  any  whit."  The  ab- 
bot answered:  "I  do  not  say 
that.  But  I  beg  and  entreat,  and 
thereto  I  command  you  in  virtue 

32 


of  obedience,  that  you  open  your 
heart  to  me,  and  tell  me  by 
what  trade  you  serve  us  here  in 
our  monastery."  "  My  lord,"  re- 
turned the  other,  "you  take  my 
life,  for  your  command  is  as 
death  to  me."  Then  he  told  him, 
howsoever  great  was  his  grief, 
all  the  story  of  his  life  from  end 
to  end,  and  left  not  a  word  un- 
said, but  told  it  all  in  one  tell- 
ing, just  as  I  have  told  it  to  you. 
He  said  and  related  it  all  to 
him,  weeping  and  with  clasped 
hands;  and,  sighing,  he  kissed 
his  feet. 

The  holy  abbot  came  to  him, 
and,  weeping,  he  raised  him  up. 
He  kissed  him  on  both  his  eyes. 
"  Brother,"  he  said, "  now  say  no 

33 


more,  for  I  pledge  you  my  word 
that  you  shall  be  of  our  fellow- 
ship. <0od  grant  that  we  may  be 
so  deserving  in  our  own  as  to 
be  of  yours!  And  you  and  I 
will  be  good  friends.  Fair,  sweet 
brother,  pray  for  me,  and  I  will 
pray  for  you.  And  I  beg  you, 
sweet  friend,  and  command  you 
in  all  sincerity  that  you  perform 
your  service  even  as  you  have 
done  hitherto,  and  yet  more  dili- 
gently if  you  are  able."  "My 
lord,"  he  asked,  "is  this  said  in 
very  truth?"  "  In  very  truth," 
returned  the  abbot.  And  that  he 
might  be  no  more  in  doubt,  he 
laid  a  penance  upon  him,  where- 
at the  good  man  was  so  rejoiced 
that,  as  the  story  says,  he  scarce 
knew  what  befell.  34 


E  must  needs  sit  him  down, 
and  he  turned  all  pale;  and 
'when  his  heart  came  back  to 
'him,  his  body  was  so  rudely 
(shaken  by  joy  that  a  malady  fell 
upon  him,  whereof  he  shortly 
died.  But  he  did  his  office  right 
cheerfully,  and  without  rest, 
morning  and  evening,  day  and 
night,  so  that  he  missed  not  a 
((^single  hour  until  he  fell  sick. 

OW,  in  sooth,  the  sick- 

ness  ^at  ^e^  k*m  was 
so  great  that  he  might  not 
stir  from  his  bed.  And  he  was 
fin  grievous  trouble  for  that  he 
could  not  pay  his  dues;  and  this 
it  was  that  tormented  him  most, 
for  he  complained  no  whit  of 
his  sickness,  save  that  he  feared 

35 


much  lest  he  lose  his  penance, 
since  he  might  no  longer  per- 
form such  labour  as  he  had  been 
wont  to  do.  It  seemed  to  him 
that  he  was  all  too  slothful;  and 
the  good  man,  who  was  very 
simple,  prayed  <&od  to  receive 
him  before  he  were  undone  by 
idleness.  For  he  was  in  such 
sore  distress,  in  that  his  affair 
had  become  known,  that  his 
heart  might  not  endure  it,  and 
he  must  perforce  lie  still  and 
might  not  stir.  The  holy  abbot 
did  him  much  honour,  for  he 
and  his  monks  came  every  hour 
and  sang  before  the  bed.  And 
the  good  man  took  such  delight 
in  what  they  sang  to  him  of 
<ZBod  that,  if  one  had  offered 

36 


him  the  whole  of  Poitou  in  ex- 
change therefor,  he  would  not 
have  taken  it,  such  joy  had  he  in 
hearing.  He  confessed  and  was 
-.penitent,  and  yet  he  doubted 
/'•somewhat  fearfully  concerning 
jj  himself.  But  what  need  of  more? 
l  In  the  end  death  came  to  him. 

HE  abbot  and  a11  his 

<§3  monks  were  there,  and 
many  a  priest  and  many 
a  canon;  they  stood  humbly 
watching  the  good  man,  and 
they  saw  all  clearly  a  wondrous 
miracle.  For  they  all  saw  with 
their  own  eyes  that  when  he 
was  about  to  die  the  Bother 
of  oBod  and  the  angels  and  the 
archangels  came  about  him. 
And  on  the  other  side  were  the 

37 


devils  and  the  imps  and  the  fu- 
ries, —  this  is  no  fable.  But  the 
fiends  crowded  about  him,  and 
waited  and  watched  in  vain,  for 
they  were  to  have  no  part  in  his 
soul.  For  even  as  the  soul  left  the 
body,  and  before  it  had  time  to 
fall,  it  was  received  by  the  Both- 
er of  <£5od.  And  the  holy  angels 
who  were  there  go  their  way 
singing  for  joy,  and  carry  him 
to  heaven  as  was  decreed.  And 
this  was  seen  by  the  whole  broth- 
erhood, and  by  all  the  others  who 
were  there.  Now  they  all  knew 
and  understood  that  <ZBod  would 
no  longer  hide  His  love  for  His 
servant,  but  wouldthatallshould 
know  and  recognise  the  man's 
goodness.  And  much  they  mar- 

38 


veiled,  and  much  they  rejoiced 
thereat.  They  did  him  great  hon- 
our, and  bore  him  into  their 
church,  where  they  performed 
the  divine  office  in  noble  wise. 
And  there  was  not  one  who  did 
not  either  sing  or  read  in  the 
choir  of  the  great  church. 

HEY  buried  him  with 
great  honour,  and  looked 
on  him  as  a  saint.  And 
then  fairly  and  openly 
the  abbot  told  them  all  the  ad- 
venture  of  the  good  man,  and 
of  his  way  of  life,  even  as  you 
have  heard  it,  and  of  all  he  him- 
self had  seen  in  the  crypt.  And 
the  convent  listened  gladly.  "  In 
sooth,"  said  they,  "it  is  good  to 
believe;  and  none  should  doubt 

39 


you  concerning  this  thing,  for 
truth  bears  witness  to  it.  The 
matter  is  well  proved  at  need; 
and  henceforth  must  there  be  no 
doubt  but  that  he  has  done  his 
penance."  Great  joy  had  they 
lamong  themselves  thereat. 

^^?  the  minstrel  came 
to  his  end.  He  tumbled 
well,  and  served  well;  for 
thereby  won  he  great  honour 
such  that  no  other  may  com- 
-pare  therewith.  The  holy  fa- 
thers tell  us  that  thus  it  befell 
this  minstrel.  And  now  let  us 
pray  to  4J5od,  who  is  above  all, 
that  He  grant  us  to  serve  Him 
so  well  that  we  may  deserve 
His  love. 

Here  ends  the  story  of  Our 
Lady's  Tumbler.  40 


This  second  edition  of  OUR 
LADY'S  TUMBLER  is 
printed  by  The  University 
Press  of  Cambridge  during 
September,  1899,  for  Small, 
Maynard  &  Company,  Boston. 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  F 


A     000  669 


